


Your Naked Magic

by ashheaps



Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-04-17
Packaged: 2017-12-08 17:51:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashheaps/pseuds/ashheaps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five Possible Tattoos for Becky Sauerbrunn and the Women Who Have Seen Them</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Naked Magic

**Author's Note:**

> Five different drabbles with varying amounts of yearning. 
> 
> Written in cahoots with the talented timequakes so please go read her interpretation as well! 
> 
> Did you need to see [this](http://www.vegas24seven.com/?attachment_id=12462%22) to believe it? Maybe.

I. §

On the bullet train in Japan, Becky asks Kelley to help her take off her jacket. Kelley has to set down her iPhone from snapping pictures out the window, a concession that greatly annoys her. But she grabs the hood, helps Becky pull the shoulder down and off her awkwardly bent arm. 

“You have a bruise back here,” Kelley notes, tapping Becky’s far side.

“No, it’s,” Becky cuts herself off. She juts her right arm out, twists the elbow as far as it’ll go. It distorts the thick lines on the very inside of her bicep. “It’s a signum sectionis.”

“What?” Kelley asks. 

“Signum sectionis,” Becky repeats, “It’s a typographical symbol.”

“Oh,” Kelley almost interrupts her, “Duh, I’ve seen that before.” She flicks through pictures on her phone.

“I think a Stanford TA just got his wings,” Becky deadpans.

Kelley’s head snaps up; she bares her front teeth and scrunches her nose as she chortles. The Japanese man next to Becky shoots Kelley an annoyed look just out of Becky’s peripheral. Kelley looks like she holds back a spit-take in attempt to summon a poker face at the affronted man. Becky’s eyebrows furrow; her neck is stiff with precaution for the scene unfolding just askew.

“So what’s it mean?” Kelley perks. She puts her inner elbow on the armrest, invades Becky’s space.

“Partially for David Foster Wallace. Partially for my thes-, well, thesis concept, I guess, is the best way to put it,” Becky sputters. “You know, a tribute to an unfinished opus, I suppose. Don’t slap me for, god, even hinting at a correlation,” she rolls her eyes.

“Hey, that’s pretty awesome,” Kelley assesses. “Let me see it again?”

Kelley leans across Becky’s body, presses her finger pads firmly into the pale muscle to turn it towards her vision. It’s a sturdy handle, forceful like a disciple seeks to touch a relic. Becky breathes deep through her nose, devotes her memory to the scent of cherry blossom in Kelley’s hair.

 

II. A Key

Becky’s not one to intrude, but the severity of the wince Kristie tries to shield is noticeable across the room in the dim bedside light.

“You alright?” Becky quips. She looks up from the edge of her book, plants her thumb on the line.

“Yeah,” Kristie excuses breathily, “Cramp.” 

Kristie played all ninety minutes this game. She took some hard hits, has been ruthless in the new league so far, but nothing that indicates she should be as stiff as she’s acting. Rooming together in Seattle has made Becky realize she needs to reach out to Kristie, feels compelled to tell her that she’s someone Kristie can trust. Almost to prove a point, Kristie pivots towards Becky with a quick flail. The purse of her lips is just too obvious.

“That’s not a crampy face,” Becky insists. She sets the book spine-up on the bed.

Kristie gives her a long, pained look.

“I can check it out. If you need, I guess,” Becky says. 

“I’m, ugh, such a fucking loser. Will you, would you mind?” Kristie begs, pouts instead of specifying.

Kristie’s flat footed as she walks over to Becky’s bedside. She lifts her shirt, shields her face from Becky’s view as she flashes her chest.

“Oh,” Becky meeps, more surprised by the boobs. “Oh,” she says, voice deepening. “Let’s go in the bathroom.”

Kristie’s face is a little easier to see in the mirror from the fluorescent light above. Becky lets Kristie lift the hem again while Becky crouches on the side of the tub.

“Just,” Becky excuses, anchors her hand to the side of Kristie’s right breast. She pushes the breast tissue just lightly, almost medically. Kristie inhales with a sharp pain. 

“Why?”

“I like it,” Kristie explains of the nipple piercing.

“Like this?” Becky asks incredulously.

“Of course not infected,” Kristie shoots. Her face falls. “So you think it is?” 

Becky bites her bottom lip and withdraws her hand. She keeps her gaze on the nipple ring when she nods.

“Yeah, dude. Sorry to say,” Becky levels. “You need some first aid stuff?”

“I have my travel kit,” Kristie says. She drops her shirt, and then buries her face in her palms. “I’m so embarrassed,” she squeaks.

Becky stands and she’s awkwardly close. Even though Kristie’s shielding her eyes, she takes a fraction of a step back.

“Hey, don’t feel bad. It happens. My tattoo got infected, accidentally,” Becky offers. She puts a comforting hand on Kristie’s shoulder.

Kristie lowers her hands. She combs her fingers through her hair, coaxing the crown into an easy wave.

“Really?” Kristie chews on the side of her thumbnail.

“Yeah, check it out,” Becky turns to the side. She lifts her own hem, reveals the expanse of skin along her side. There’s a tiny key nestled close to her ribcage, a golden finish inked into her skin. From this angle, she can feel the chill hotel air on her own breast. She knows she’s overexposing, but it feels amicable, like a peace offering. The top of the key, a swirled knot, is fuzzy. It’s obvious the ink didn’t take. 

“It’s not so bad,” Becky insists. “It won’t be fucked up forever,” she juts her chin in the vague direction of Kristie’s breast as her shirt falls down into place. 

“What happened with yours?” Kristie asks. Her voice is meek, like she’s calculating her potential suffering. She leans her butt against the countertop, plants her hands on the edge.

“There’s, uh, a back story sort of.” Becky pauses, laughs as she scratches absently behind her ear. “Well, I mean, my boyfriend has the lock. So, we got them for each other, right? And it, yeah, was for our anniversary. There was a certain, outfit, I guess, that he liked and, well. I wore it too long, too soon. The underwire fucked it up,” Becky tells. “You know, rubbing, uh, against it.”

“Oh, yeah,” Kristie agrees, “sure.” 

“It’ll be a stupid story if we ever break up,” Becky cracks.

“Yeah,” Kristie says, followed by a short, forced laugh. She averts her gaze. 

Becky can tell she’s trying to censor herself. She tries hold back what she’s about to say but it slips out anyway. 

“I got it with Syd,” Kristie says. “My sister doesn’t even know I have it,” she adds, quietly. 

Becky nods appraisingly.

“You’re allowed to keep things to yourself,” Becky advises. “I mean, you’re allowed to do things for the express purpose of your own pleasure. Or, a…shared, pleasure,” Becky measures out.

Kristie blushes, looks down.

“Yeah, totally,” she settles. “Sorry to gross you out,” she changes the subject quickly. Becky can sense there’s something else sensitive about it.

“No, it’s fine. I was reading the Red Wedding scene again so, I’m pretty sure I can handle it,” Becky jokes.

Kristie gives her a blank, trout-mouthed look.

“Sure,” she leads. A fake laugh floats forward.

“Get your hand off your tit once in a while and pick up a book,” Becky says. She shuffles out of the bathroom. Kristie follows gingerly, and she flicks off the light behind them.

Kristie fake sobs.

“Don’t tease me, I’m infected,” Kristie begs.

Becky hops on the bed, feet kicked out and crossed before she hits the sheets.

“Valar Morghulis,” Becky quotes sagely.

“You,” Kristie takes a breath, but there’s nothing. She shakes her head quickly; her hair cascades forward, loosening. “You,” she finishes—the accusation self-evident.

 

III. A Sylvia Plath quote

It happens once, after the Brazil game in Dresden.

Becky sneaks past her dozing roommate just after midnight. She’s been scoping the hotel out during the week, enjoys the anonymity that comes with street clothes and a hotel bath towel shoved across her chest. She knows that the pool isn’t technically open, but the Jacuzzi is too tempting. Even though she didn’t play today, the tense hours on the bench, the white-knuckle grip during the PKs, riled her up too much to sleep. 

As suspected, the pool room is empty and unlocked. Her footsteps echo eerily, hollow like the smell of chlorine. She’s without proper swimsuit, so she slides into the bubbling tub in just her sports bra and shorts. Becky finds the strongest jet, presses her back close to it. She drops her head back against the concrete and breathes in the heat, the moisture. 

So it really scares her when Rachel throws the heavy door open. Rachel beelines over, but Becky can tell her posture is all bowed, defeated. There’s a depressing sag to her shoulders, like everything is physically weighing her down. Rachel squints to see who’s sitting amongst the bubbles, doesn’t manage a genuine smile. 

“Hey,” Becky clears her throat after she says it.

Rachel mumbles in Becky’s direction. Rachel had been inconsolable on the bus back to the hotel, raw and unbridled in the window seat next to Amy. Becky knows she’s exhausted, can see it in the deep ridges in her forehead. She steps in gripping onto the safety rail loosely, like it doesn’t matter if she slips.  
Rachel wades to the middle of the pool where the bubbles are collecting and disappearing all the same. She slithers into the water with a quiet gasp as her head submerges. Becky counts to seven, then floats in her direction. She makes her presence known, grabs Rachel’s bicep like a lifeline. Rachel comes up though, without coaxing, and her hair lags in a drab, flat mask.

Of course she can’t see her tears in the water. But Becky can’t mistake the gulp, the tired sob. She would’ve thought Rachel had been cried out by now, but it’s like the aftershocks—the sheer memory shakes her all over again. Becky drags her against the jet streams to the bench. Their thighs touch because the spouts are so plentiful, so close together.

Rachel flips her hair out of her face. The look she shoots Becky is honest above all else, and, as Becky will remember it later, positively feral. Becky hits the back of her neck against the concrete; Rachel’s forward momentum is so kinetic it reverberates. Rachel fits her knees around Becky, settles into her lap with a floating steadiness, all weightless with the water rushing around them. Rachel goes for the important points—lips touching lips, Rachel’s hand touching Becky’s tattoo she’s wantonly admired before.

It’s a tiny line of text where Becky rests her hand on her chest for the national anthem. It’s script like she’s been wrung through a typewriter. Everyone knows Becky’s struggled with love, knows she feels tortured by life’s illusive happiness. The tournament is a blessing, but a tempting pleasure. She wonders if she’ll earn her worth, if she’ll be able to prove, mostly to herself, that her pain is worth the payoff, that her steadfastness isn’t punishment but pressure. But Rachel takes with the sureness of her own hands, like she’s fearless. Rachel palms the tender words, and lower. Becky can almost recognize Rachel’s lips repeating the worn phrase. I am, I am, I am. 

 

Okay, it happens twice. For the last time, it’s in Vegas. Becky’s had so many sweets already, but it doesn’t stop her from nibbling on Rachel’s candy necklace in the elevator.

 

IV. &

As one might expect, it’s Lori’s idea to go to Pride together. It’s glorious, the exact kind of event that Becky likes when she’s feeling infinite and cheerful. But, above all, it’s hot as fuck. Becky’s had a couple shots since this morning, so it’s not implausible that she’d end up with a stranger’s fringed leather vest over her tank top. It is, however, greatly implausible that she herself had the idea to slip off the tank top and spin it above her head in the air.

But somehow, that’s what happens. And when the float of the Southern Belles rolls by, the drag queen crowns Becky with a beautiful array of rainbow beads.

“I want that shit,” Lori calls immediately. Becky sways her hips harder with the passing music.

“Get in line,” Becky snaps playfully.

When the parade is over, they walk with a group of Lori’s friends to a beer garden. It’s the first time Becky realizes her vest doesn’t quite meet her blue jean shorts, when Lori palms the hot, pale muscle of her oblique.

“Let me just wear it,” Lori suggests. “Just for like, a few minutes.”

“No! I got it from the queen!” Becky says. 

Lori’s really wants that freaking necklace though. So she decides to buy more shots. Becky knocks back a buttery nipple effortlessly.

“I’m not going home without those gay beads,” Lori stakes.

“Then I guess I’m going home with you,” Becky responds, like it’s easy.

Lori gets them a cab within the half hour; just them.

Becky’s in Lori’s kitchen before she realizes what’s happening.

“I’m not questioning, per se,” Becky clarifies with her eyes closed.

“Okay,” Lori says brightly.

“I’m open-minded though,” Becky continues. 

Lori gulps a glass of water down. The afternoon sun is barely locking into position, casting shade into Lori’s apartment.

“I’d like to think most people really are, if they admit it or not,” Lori agrees. “Plus, you’re standing in my kitchen, drunk and shirtless, wearing leather in the middle of the afternoon. So, I’d expect nothing less.”

“And that brings me to my next point. Which is: these beads are mine,” Becky sasses. She knows Lori is watching, so she slowly strips off the vest. “But I am prepared to make a peace offering.”

Becky’s wearing a laced bandeau bra. She’s lean, long in the torso, and the bra’s a modest stripe across her toned chest. As Becky takes off the vest, Lori notices the bold ampersand swirling along Becky’s ribcage. 

She approaches Lori, holding the vest open. 

“You literally have no idea where that has been,” Lori keels. 

“It’s been on me. At the beer garden,” Becky excuses playfully. She shoves the vest forward. 

“That’s not really my thing,” Lori pinches the shoulders gingerly. She drapes it on the back of a nearby dining chair.

“ _I’m_ not really your thing? _Beer gardens_ aren’t really your thing? I must be a little confused,” Becky asks incredulously. She squares her shoulders towards Lori. They’ve had this conversation before, bemoaning the stereotypes projected between lesbians and straight women. It’s a heavy-handed joke, one that Lori knows Becky fished from a shallow pool in her mind.

“Thought you weren’t questioning,” Lori counters.

Becky falters and that lets Lori know that she’s thinking about something else. It’s not unlike Becky to traipse into her own world, but it’s different when Lori bests her into a stupefied stare. The alcohol isn’t the impetus; Lori is.

“And what?” Lori asks. She steps just the slightest bit closer.

“What?” Becky barely manages a voice above a whisper.

“And,” Lori palms Becky’s bare side. Her hand hides the ink deviously. “And what?”

Becky breathes in, and Lori can feel her lungs inflate under her fingertips.

“Possibilities,” Becky answers, “A reminder to extend and seek.” 

Her voice rattles around inside. Lori’s hand remains on her ribs. Becky feels brave, and puts her hand on Lori’s shoulder. They look like they might be dancing, Lori leading. And maybe it is a dance, getting the angles right so that Lori can gaze at Becky. She’s positively smoldering.

“That’s kinda my thing,” Lori admits with a smile.

“Punctuation? No, it’s not,” Becky says confidently. 

Lori can’t help but laugh. Becky blushes. Everything about her body is alive, hot with potential and arousal.

“You can win this one. Because I want to kiss you,” Lori hisses.

“Then I win that one too,” Becky notes.

Lori doesn’t steal the beads, necessarily, but she ends up with them. Lori does remove them, and the bra, and the ridiculous denim shorts. And Becky doesn’t claim the beads, later, when she’s retrieving her clothes (and the vest) from the kitchen, so in that way, Lori gets the beads.

 

V. A flower

It’s Amy’s favorite place. It’s on Becky’s hip, slips low beneath her shorts. Simple and soft, it plays on the fairness of her skin. It’s a pale orchid, hyper-realistic against her freckles. Everyone’s seen it before; the locker room is a sacred place. But Amy’s assuredly the only one to tongue the edges, to taste the salty blossom. 

In Vancouver, it’s so cold in their room. Yet Becky sweats; she feels the beads of moisture in Amy’s hair as she pushes Amy’s head down, further between her legs. Amy’s so greedy—with their shared quarters, with her lips pursing against Becky’s softness, with her arms contracting around Becky’s thighs. 

“Fuck,” Becky sputters.

Amy plants her hands on Becky’s hips; she uses her shoulders to open Becky’s legs wider, to get her deliciously spread. A shudder reverberates through her; it’s a quake down her body. Amy flicks at her clit, like a reward for the express pleasure of being able to explore her. Amy’s insistence is soft, though, like she’s whispering or praying, maybe.

Amy’s so attentive. She becomes this invigorated, eager temptress when she goes down on Becky. Becky can’t deny her the satisfaction—she’s patient and intimately responsive. She thrives on finding Becky’s sensitive, alluring spots of pleasure immediately, as if she’s been reading her mind all day. 

In training, in the gym, every moment is seduction. Even though they’re professional, both focused and driven, the subtly of their secrets stirs with every minute interaction. And that’s exactly what it is: a wordless, intentioned secret. The hotel room is especially private, tucked away in a short nook and separate from the team’s block further down the hall. Becky doesn’t feel so bridled when Amy makes her scream, call out without discretion. 

Becky moans. Amy shifts her own body, angles so that her determined lick makes Becky’s eyes roll back. Becky can feel Amy smile and it drives her to bliss. It’s like she’s blooming, arcing towards the light except it’s Amy and the surreptitious way she urges Becky to produce, to expend. 

When she comes, it’s as if Amy’s surrounding her, entombing her so delicately. Becky hates herself for noting the intense level of personal intimacy, the natural way Amy exists in her life with such complexity. It’s empowering, achieving orgasm at the helm of Amy’s mouth. Amy’s hands slide along Becky’s hipbones. Her touch adores the inked skin, reverent at the identifying mark there—Amy’s familiarity and devout connection to it.

Becky is decanted, swirled into existential contentment. Amy washes her face in the bathroom, allows a few moments of privacy to transition into amicable coexistence. She grins warmly at the sight of Becky flopped effortlessly against the sheets, stark naked and decorated. Her tattoo moves when she sucks in a steady breathe. Her eyes widen at Amy’s disheveled hair, her tank top and panties meet in a skewed set of lines. It’s heavy-handed to say that Becky’s alive because of Amy, because of her relentless but dependable shine. Amy glows like she’s been converting lust into satisfaction, like she’s simultaneously visible and unable to be seen. Becky licks her lips, silently begs for Amy to come, too. And she does, like a flower reaches for the sun.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [you wrote yourself behind](https://archiveofourown.org/works/764274) by [timequakes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/timequakes/pseuds/timequakes)




End file.
